


Tit for Tap

by Anonymous



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Ballet, Ballet Dancer Malcolm Bright, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Slow To Update, Spoilers Episode 18
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23410186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Malcolm dances inside Endicott's theatre in this noncon AU.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright, Jessica Whitly/Nicholas Endicott, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Nicholas Endicott/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31
Collections: Anonymous





	Tit for Tap

  
Once upon a time, Gil loved the snow because it meant snow day and running around until he could unzip his jacket and staying out until his mama called him out of the crunchy streets. Now as Lieutenant Arroyo, in charge of a detective squad under Major Crimes Unit, his joints ached and his Yankee mug steaming with tea was surgically attached to his hand. More than the canned refrain of holiday frenzy that stressed daydreamer deviants over the line into homicidal pleasure seekers, Gil hated the first snowfall. Somewhere out there was a special snowflake that would have a meltdown.

Arroyo parked his LeMans on flattened snow deeply imprinted with tire tracks, respectfully giving berth to the lawn chair nestled in thawed icy sludge. He didn’t need a cheap chair smashed through the convertible roof. His tongue curled around cool blue mint as he entered the Endicott Theatre and pocketed his stunner shades. 

His detectives, Tarmel and Powell, were already on the scene. They didn’t need him micro-managing. However, because of where the murder took place, it was necessary for NYPD to show out. Preferential treatment was an unfortunate protocol in any and all matters related to Nicholas Endicott. Among other positions and directorship which esteemed the Endicott brand, he owned the theatre and was himself on the premises wooing patrons for a soiree event advertised as “Endowment for the Arts.” 

His jacket went unbuttoned, knowing that he would overheat in a dated and historically problematic building from the many theatre patrons trickling out as his detectives collected contact information and brief surveys. Wingtips dampening the faded crushed velvet flooring, Arroyo moved through the cologne, the perfume, the cheese plates.

“Hello Jess,” said Arroyo. He wasn’t surprised to find her clasping hands with a handsome and tailored man similar to her in age. They had met once, when he arrested her first husband, on grounds of his psychopathic serial murders. The man was acquitted by a devilishly capable criminal defense attorney, current whereabouts unknown.

She appeared very well, indeed, in sapphire drop earrings the size of Pluto and an off shoulder peacock blue cocktail dress which set off her engagement ring. As far as Gil understood it, she kept the mansion, the kids, and her married name. She was admirable for keeping her poise within higher strata, floating like a swan and kicking desperately to stay current.

“Gil,” said Jessica, her delicate lips parted before she raised them upwards and turned her radiance on her companion.

“Nicholas,” said the man. 

Arroyo shook himself; he should’ve cottoned on to Nicholas whose appearance he recognized in formalized ceremonies, but Jessica was one hell of a dame.

Jessica introduced them. Arroyo indicated to Nicholas that his connection to Jessica Whitly was through police work. Then he moved through polite assurances until Detective Powell, an intuitive investigator despite her youth, interrupted their conversation to borrow her Lieutenant.

“Who was Javier?” asked Arroyo. He had gotten the name of the deceased ballet dancer from Nicholas.

“Star of the show,” answered Powell.

An exquisitely built man who used to have light tan skin lied face down in a red puddle on a makeshift stage. They entered into what appeared to be a banquet room with all the trappings of an overblown hotel lounge, instead of the auditorium itself.

“Poison,” declared the medical examiner, citing signs of death.

“Looks like it, Edrisa. Poor guy. Who were the last people in contact with Javier?”

Powell gave him the names she liked best. “Javier was performing with the prima, Eve. I have to get back to her; she’s washing off the blood, more likely to open up to me. JT is interviewing First Soloist Axel X. That’s definitely an alias.”

She squinted at her notepad and pointed at a young man stretching in a black leotard and slate gray leg warmers. “The other person who spent this morning with Javier asked to speak with you. I mentioned your name as my superior and he reacted. Second soloist, all yours.”

“Got it, Powell.”

Arroyo strode to the ballet dancer who was shorter but lean and limber. “Excuse me, I’m—”

“Hi hey, Officer Arroyo,” greeted the young man. He wrapped his bare arms around himself.

“Where do I know you from, kid?” inquired Arroyo. The lieutenant noted the fair coloring, the short brown hair tucked under a light gray knit hat, and the blue eyes glimmering with a spark of amusement in spite of dark circles and the somber shape of his rather pink lips.

The young man put a hand on the back of his neck and toed the floor.

“I don’t know why I thought you’d remember me. Apologies. I’m used to people knowing who I am. God, that’s pompous.” Dimples formed in his downcast cheeks, his fingers scratching at his forehead scrunched up from his flustered realization.

Arroyo tilted his head. “I’ll take down a name, would prefer your real one.”

“Bright,” responded the young man.

The answer hit Arroyo as soon as Bright peeked from under his lashes and deadly serious lines etched his face.

“Manhattan '98,” said Arroyo, cutting him off. “Malcolm, how are you?”

Bright grinned at him, pleased to be known and acknowledged. A shiver ran up his body.

Arroyo slid off his coat and extended it to Bright.

“You don’t have to. I can deal.”

“Humor me. I need you planted while you catch me up on what’s happened. Specifically today, with Javier. I’d have to bring you home over dinner to get your whole story from way back when.”

“Thank you, Officer Arroyo. I was fine while I stretched my muscles.” Bright trailed off as he huddled under the long jacket.

“I’m Gil, please. You save a man’s life, you’re on first name basis,” insisted Arroyo. His hands rubbed the sleeves of his jacket until Bright relaxed.

“It’s possible that my father wasn’t serving you ketamine laced beverage,” said Bright.

“Best case scenario, you were saving me from a bad rooibos blend,” quipped Arroyo, earning himself another keen smile.

As Bright walked him through the events of that morning and backtracked to the previous evening’s dance practice in anticipation of the lethal event that would be Javier’s last dance, Lieutenant Arroyo tugged up the sleeves of his turtleneck, running hotter than normal, from the slightly distracting view of Bright fingering the buttons of his lapel and subtly raising the collar of his jacket to inhale.

Arroyo thumbed his ring and decided that if Bright were guilty of any sins, it certainly wasn’t murder.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Malcolm wasn’t dragging his feet or slouching when he finally reached the coveted privacy of a semi-destroyed dressing room. He had tarried longer than he meant to with the more seasoned and matured cop. As someone who drained himself mentally to keep up appearances within proper society, Malcolm had found Gil’s friendly manners and firm directness beyond refreshing. Invigorating, almost. However, as a consequence of enjoying a conversation on borrowed time, Malcolm exerted his energies to kiss up to the prima and to assure his team member Axel, next in line as noble danseur, that he wasn’t in serious talks with the police.

He knew who ended Javier’s career; they all did.

Malcolm peeled the leotard from his body, stowed his pointed slippers and freshened up with baby wipes from his makeup bag. He pulled on a onesie footed pajama which was a hideous yellow, splashed with limey coloration on his tummy and the outward sleeve. His mood lifted when he tugged the hood over his third day hair and admired the plush orange beak and the demented jumbo sized googly eyes.

“Take off that ridiculous get-up.”

Malcolm pinched his lips and undid the zipper over the puffed front. He balled up his favorite clothes and kicked it into a pile of emptied laundry bags, for later retrieval. What choice had he?

A man’s hand trailed his back muscles possessively. Malcolm gripped the counter, stance centered in the vanity mirror, a habit as well ingrained as a linked phrase of movement.

“Hello, Uncle.”

“For now, yes.” Teeth dug in, marked his shoulder.

Malcolm blew air through his teeth when Nicholas pulled his hair and pawed at the hair ringing his nipples before pulling them both into sharp peaks.

“I know you can dance, but was surprised to hear you sang today.”

“What? No, uncle,” gasped Malcolm. Nicholas curled an arm around his throat and twisted Malcolm’s arm.

“You talked to police. You put on pig garments,” growled Nicholas. “You smell like pig shit. How fucking dare you, you slut. After I sheltered your mother, put your sister on the maps, and gave you the stage.”

“Do I need to give you to Vosler again?”

“No, please not him,” whimpered Malcolm, fighting for tears in Nicholas’ choke hold. He recoiled from the unforgettable agony seared into flesh, zapped through his temples, for his own good.

“Maybe you’ll get to meet my good friend, Simon. He’ll shrink you and repackage you. Then what use do I have for you, drugged up to your eyeballs? It would be like having your mother after dinner. If she weren’t a limp fuck, I wouldn’t have to use you.”

Nicholas rubbed Malcolm’s abdomen which ached from the sharp press of the counter’s edge, the arm which clenched his neck waning into sweaty touches. He squeezed at Malcolm’s muscled thigh, hard against his slim ass.

“You know that your uncle doesn’t mean it, not about Simon. I wouldn’t let him get his hooks into your brain. I’m more nervous about my impending nuptials with Jessica, you see.”

Malcolm’s lids fluttered open to the sight of his dead eyes in the fogged mirror.

“May I comfort you, uncle?”

“Yes, absolutely, how sweet you are to offer,” responded Nicholas. “Get your slippers on.”

Malcolm steeled himself for the performance that Nicholas would demand of him. High knee, hip down, his foot en passe above his knee cap, elongating his back and neck, turning out his supporting leg. Nicholas encircled his waist, controlled the pace of his turns while Malcolm clung to his shoulder.

With the packet of lube from his toiletries kit, Malcolm got his fingers dirty, supporting his weight on the vanity as he performed an unorthodox ouvert, opening for Nicholas. He said a prayer when he brought out the condom.

Nicholas permitted it.

“When I wed, we’ll be family. You can leave off with precautions,” said Nicholas. His thumb and forefinger pinched Malcolm’s balls until he had Malcolm crying, “Uncle!”

Nicholas picked him up and laid him onto the counter. Malcolm arched, adjusting to avoid injuring his tail bone. His legs coiled around Nicholas, bare legs chafed by Nicholas’ bunched trousers. Nicholas gripped his neck and wrapped one hand around Malcolm’s slipper, feeling up the silk.

The condom slid along the dip of Malcolm’s thigh. Nicholas’ thumb skimmed the stubble on his chin, pressed his bottom lip into his teeth until it pinched.

“Soon you’ll be calling me your father. No more can you deny me. I’ll fill you on my wedding night,” promised Nicholas. 

He then claimed Malcolm with the carnal power of a hunter that devoured what he caught, what he took, what he tore into.

Malcolm called upon every ounce of discipline molded into him on Nicholas’ stage. This time when he went into that place of peace which he carved for himself, shrinking from the split cells that screamed for Nicholas, Malcolm scented warm cologne which covered him like a jacket right off a kindly man’s back.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sunshine the parakeet waited for his return but Malcolm could only tug on a long sleeve thermal sized Large which came down to his upper leg. Then he curled up and died on the figurative casting couch, missing his window to call Adolpho for a ride to his loft. Nicholas had departed and Malcolm cared for nothing more than his absence. Malcolm dozed before the sensation of the couch cushions dipping stirred him into hazy consciousness.

He sat up and immediately bunched his fists, readying himself for a knock down drag ass fight. Pain speared sharply, stealing his breath. He wasn’t in his loft, in his bed, safely restrained. Malcolm remained in a theatre, alone but for an audience of one.

“Hello, my boy,” greeted Martin. He had gained weight and wrinkles and silver webbed his short and curly hair.

“You’re not really my parental unit.” Malcolm couldn’t get out the word “father”, sickened from Nicholas’ assault backstage.

“I very much am; Here in the flesh.” Martin regarded him with no small measure of commiseration.

“Your mother sure knows how to pick them.”

Malcolm’s nostrils flared. “You saw and you did nothing. You psychopath!”

“For all evils there are two remedies. Time and silence,” said Martin.

At least he didn’t reach for Malcolm in a useless gesture of paternity.

“What do you suppose would become of you if I interceded right then?” continued Martin. “Am I, a pariah in all echelons, fit to save my only son? Haste is a poor counselor.”

“If you’re not here to… do anything, why come at all?” asked Malcolm. “Is this your final revenge on me?”

“My dear child. Your suffering brings me no satisfaction; it’s quite senseless and doesn’t further any gains,” explained Martin.

Rage flashed in his eyes like lightning a hairs breadth from striking the roots of the world. “I will take you away once I fully avenge us on the pretender known as Nicholas Endicott!”

Malcolm slumped into the battered cushions. “That’s a good joke. Tell me another, Dr. Whitly.”

“Wait and hope.” Martin licked his lips, dispassionately surveying his battered son.

“Uncertainty is worse than all,” Malcolm said before black claws haled him into the night terrors which he had come to expect.

**Author's Note:**

> *shrug* one more for the trash pile.


End file.
